


time passed us by (keep me in your thoughts)

by aelins



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azriel is a little gayyyy, Berlin Wall, Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fall of the Berlin Wall, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Homophobia, Play Fighting, i don't know what else to tag so pls forgive if i forgot anything, use of the word kitty in questionable circumstances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins
Summary: The year is 1990.The Berlin Wall has fallen, and the people of the Soviet Union are in peril. Cassian’s people, the people of what was once Russia, are left out in the cold.He is alone in what used to be West Berlin, a mercenary hunting down the people who betrayed the KGB, and American spies.A year ago, he was tearing down the Berlin wall with his bare hands, alongside a woman whose presence in his life has marked him a traitor.When she tries to kill him, he's grateful just to feel the press of her will against his.a historical Nessian AU
Relationships: Azriel/Lucien Vanserra, Elain Archeron/Azriel/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	time passed us by (keep me in your thoughts)

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of thoughts, but I'm going to let you read and then put my thoughts at the end of the fic!

****

**March 1990, West Berlin.**

The Glock in Cassian’s hand is a welcome weight. It is the surety that he will not die—at least not at the hands of this piece of filth. In true _Cassian_ style, he’s leaping from building to building, they’re close together in this part of West Berlin—some of the buildings leaning against each other like drunk friends on a Friday night. Cassian’s hulking body is surprisingly agile in tight spaces.

He fires off two rounds, squeezing the trigger, and twisting to aim behind him mid-leap between buildings. His opponent—Beron Vanserra, a man in his late forties and an enemy of the People of the Soviet Union is caught off guard, Cassian only catches him in the shoulder, but it’s enough to knock him off balance and send him to his death, Cassian doesn’t stop running.

He hears Beron’s dead weight land on the rubbish bins and Cassian begins the descent back to the ground, via one of the old fire escapes. He drops to the ground, crouched on his hands and knees. His bad knee throbs, but he stands easily and hides his Glock under the sweatshirt, and stashes the gun at his lower back.

The day begins, and already there is blood on his hands.

*~*~*

Cassian had thought he’d seen it all, seen men beg on bended knee for their families, for their children—for the women they pretended they loved. Cassian was the avenging angel, the grim reaper who came to collect on unpaid debts.

He vaguely wonders as he walks down the streets in the slums of West Berlin—if he could have been made to beg— _for her_. He shakes the thought away, it is the most pestilential habit he can lay claim to—thinking of her when he should be working. When he should be burning his soul to ashes—he frequently thinks of the night of November 9th, 1989—nearly six months ago.

She had been the only thing to match his fire—the spite in her eyes, as they tore down cement and rebar. He’d gone because the connection between them had been undeniable. He’d known the whore he’d been fucking for the past twelve hours, was more than she seemed, he should have killed her then and there.

But he had never known what was good for him.

And Nesta Archeron was certainly the biggest hazard to his way of life he’d ever encountered.

He gets coffee and a pastry at the cafe near his apartment on the other side of West Berlin. The danish is strawberry—sickeningly sweet as is the coffee. He drank the coffee for the caffeine only—he didn’t enjoy the taste.

He has a piano, here in the loft-style apartment he keeps in downtown West Berlin.

He can play it—but typically chooses not to, but his brother—his brother would have liked that he occasionally tried. Rhysand had always been something of a virtuoso—in all areas. And yet as he wonders where his brother is now, he can’t help but sit down and play.

The piece he plays is Claire de Lune—composed by Debussy—and it is the only song he can truly play at the same level as his little brother.

The melody is too—nostalgic though, and halfway through he stops playing.

He gives a frustrated sigh as the sound dies.

Everything he has ever loved was dead now. Why would the music in his heart be any different?

*~*~*

Nesta Archeron was on the run—she didn’t know how she’d gotten on the plane—didn’t remember half of it because of how much vodka was in her system. As she grabs her carry-on bag, and departs the plane, she figures it is the fact that people don’t like to look to closely at a woman who has clearly seen better days. Her hair had been damp—from the downpour she’d fought to get to her flight on time—and she’d reeked of Smirnoff.

No one had spoken to her on the flight, not one soul.

And she had been trapped with fifty people—likely all people who would report her for the ten thousand ruble price on her head—for one purpose.

_Find him, **kill him**_.

She’s sobering up as she lands in East Germany, the furthest her flight will take her. She had the address of his apartment. She would take a taxi to the edge of town, and take the tunnels below the wall. She would emerge on the other side and meet the connections she’d made last year. They would provide her with food, clothes, and weapons.

She thinks to herself as her combat boots take her from the tunnels to the safety of a hotel far away from snipers and tyrants, she thinks how she will make him beg, how she will end him.

She doubted he’d ever begged for a damn thing in his life—well it was time that changed.

As she’s outfitted with explosives, guns, and knives, fed a diet of vengeance and desperation—she knows Cassian will see her coming a mile away.

What else would she expect from the man who had deemed himself _the Lord of Bloodshed_? But she was prepared, always prepared. She hadn’t been there for the felling of the Berlin Wall, been a spy for the CIA for ten years, and escaped Lubyanka Prison without a cause, without purpose.

The fire in her veins, the light in her eyes was lit by the fires of vengeance. She would see him burn, would make sure he was dead or recalled to Moscow.

*~*~*

Cassian, for the most part, lives a normal life, he wakes up, eats breakfast, and reads the newspaper.

Then he trains with his older brother, Azriel. They go through drill after drill, first just lifting, and cardio, then they spar, and if anyone was able to match him in the ring—it was Azriel. He moved faster than Arctic winds, more deadly than a rogue wave off the coast of the Black Sea. Azriel was what the children of Berlin and every town between what remained of the Iron Curtain and Moscow were told of to keep them well behaved. _Azriel was the thing of nightmares._

Then when he’s showered and Azriel has fucked off to do whatever spy shit he has to be for the day—Cassian goes to the library, does errands, and only about once a month can he be found haunting the streets late at night.

He’s always armed in one way or another, and on this particular Friday, he’s out getting milk for his brother, when the market seems to go still, and a gun is pressed with force into the side of his head.

“I really thought it might be more difficult to kill you—“ her cold, sweet voice pierces his heart.

His fists clench, his heart seems to rise in his throat, he thinks he’s going to be sick.

“ _You_.” Cassian breathes, exhaling with the word and wondering if it will be the last word he ever says.

Nesta cocks the gun roughly, and he can hear the grin in her voice, “ _Me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/sanktaleks) | [insta](https://www.instagram.com/princelings_) | [tumblr](https://sanktaleks.tumblr.com)


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